•'li':     -.-•     -.<:      .•': 


525 


: 


q 


o 


C 

z 


w 

a 

oo 

H 


O 

o 
r 

o 


1 


M 

n 


A     COTTAGE     GRAY      .  *  .      BEING     THE     NINTH 
VOLUME    OF     THE    LOTUS   SERIES    .  " .    PRINTED 
BY    THE    PRESS    OF   CHARLES   WELLS   MOULTON 
IN    THE    CITY    OF    BUFFALO. 
MDCCCXCV. 


THIS   BOOK  IS    ISSUED  IN  A  LIMITED   EDITION 
OF  SIX-HUNDRED   COPIES  OF    WHICH    THIS 


IS   NO 


A  COTTAGE  GRAY 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

FRANCES  MARGARET  MILNE 
AUTHOR  OF  "FOR  TO-DAY" 


Let  the  soul  be  assured  that  somewhere  in  the  universe  it 
should  rejoin  its  friend,  and  it  would  be  content  and  cheerful 
alone  for  a  thousand  years. — EMERSON. 


BUFFALO 
CHARLES  WELLS  MOULTON 


COPYRIGHT,  1895, 
BY  FRANCES  MARGARET  MILNE. 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

A  COTTAGE  GRAY  ....  .9 

MADONNA          .......         37 

IN  SPRINGTIME:  A  MEMORY      .  .  .    39 

MRS.  BROWNING'S  "AURORA  LEIGH  "       .  .          .42 

'  ORA  PRO  ME  "  .  .          .  .  .  .  -45 

LILAC  LANE      .....  .47 

OUR  LITTLE  ROMAN        .          .  .  .  .          .49 

MADRIGAL         .....  .51 

WHERE  FIRST  WE  WANDERED  .  .  .  .52 

To  MY  BELOVED         ;  .  .  .  .  -55 

MY  BIRTHDAY       ...  •     57 

COMFORT          ....  .60 

IN  REMEMBRANCE  ...  -63 

SWFET  SPRING  ......          66 

A  WOODLAND  MEMORY   .  .  .  .  ,  .68 

"  BUT  THEN."  .......          71 

"  SEEING,  UNSEEN."         .  .  .  .  .  -73 

BUT  A  DREAM  .......          77 


A  COTTAGE  GRAY 


A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

"As  one  alone,  once  not  alone." 

SLANT  morning  sunbeams  touched  a  cottage 
gray, 

Silent  and  lonely -in  the  village  street. 
Once,  long  ago,  (how  long!)  it  had  been  gay 

With  youth  and   hope,  and  all  that  makes  life 

sweet. 

Life's  hurrying  stream  flowed  past,  but  nevermore 
Might  cross  the  gloomy  threshold  of  that  door. 

Within  the  shelter  of  a  shadowed  room, 
A  lonely  woman  mused  of  mornings  fled. 

The  silence  closed  around  her  like  a  tomb; 
The  house  seemed  haunted  by  her  quiet  tread. 

So  pale,  so  wan,  so  passionless  her  face, 

She  looked  the  ghost  of  that  deserted  place. 


10  A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

Yet  was  it  not  the  pallor  of  despair, 

The  hopeless  yielding  to  a  hopeless  fate: 

Life's  storm  had  spent,  and  left  its  traces  there; 
But  now  her  eventide  was  wearing  late. 

Why  make  lament  ?     Her  steps  were  drawing  on 

To  the  far  country  where  her  loved  had  gone. 

Earth's  purest  pleasure,  Earth's  most  bitter  pain, 
Had  been  her  portion;  both  were  ended  now. 

There  were  who  neither  knew;    should  she  com 
plain  ? 
Would  she  exchange  this  weary  haggard  brow, 

This  aching  heart,  with  memories  over-fraught, 

For  the  light  peace  of  their  untroubled  thought? 

She  paused  beside  the  window,  and  looked  out 
Upon  the  garden's  winding  alleys  green; 

Unconsciously  she  paused,  to  hear  the  shout 
Of  youth's  free  joyance  stir  the  leafy  screen. 

Ah,  nevermore  the  echoes  might  repeat 

The  liquid  laughter  of  those  voices  sweet. 

There    had    her    childhood's    wayward    footsteps 

strayed; 

There  had  her  happy  maidenhood  its  part; 
And  underneath  that  checkered  sun  and  shade, 
Love's  passionate  pleading  thrilled  her  waiting 

heart. 

And  clear  child-voices,  babbling  phrases  dear, 
Had  made  soft  music  to  a  mother's  ear. 


A  COTTAGE  GRAY.  U 

She  had  been  wedded,  heart  and  soul,  to  one 
Who  touched  with  skillful  hand  the  varying  keys 

Of  song's  sweet  instrument,  and  lightly  won 
From  life  its  purest,  richest  harmonies. 

Like  the  rare  melody  of  anthems  clear, 

Were  the  glad  days  his  presence  counted  here. 

Alas,  fond  eyes!  there  is  not  any  spot, 
In  sunny  garden,  or  in  shadowed  room, 

Which  his  dear  memory,  lingering,  hallows  not. 
As  lingers  round  the  vase  the  flower's  perfume, 

Telling  of  balmy  winds  and  vernal  bloom, 

To  hearts  impatient  of  December's  gloom. 

Oh,  my  lost  Eden!   mournfully  she  sighed; 

Thou  wert  not  dearer,  garden  loved  of  old! 
Nor  happier  lovers  did  in  thee  abide, 

Than  we  who  watched  the  varied  year  unfold. 
When  did  thy  evening  and  thy  morning  make 
A  fairer  day  than  blossomed  for  our  sake  ? 

Oh,  my  lost  Eden!  from  afar  I  gaze 
Upon  thy  portals! — closed  forevermore. 

My  feet  are  weary,  treading  thorny  ways; 
My  heart  is  hungry  for  the  bliss  of  yore. 

Oh,  for  a  vanished  smile — a  look — a  tone! — 

To  soothe  the  anguish  of  my  vigil  lone. 


12  A  CO  TTA  GE  GRA  Y. 

Was  her  prayer  answered  ?    From  the  far  unseen 
Did  Love  reach  down  a  gentle  hand  to  her  ? 

And  did  Love  feel  the  voice  that  erst  had  been 
Earth's  sweetest  music, through  Heaven's  rapture 
stir? 

Did  not  fond  Pity  drop  a  tender  tear, 

Amid  the  splendor  of  a  sinless  sphere  ? 

I  can  not  answer:  answer,  ye  who  will! 

Yet,  as  she  turned  to  gaze  upon  his  face, 
With  passionate,  yearning  eyes,  what  mystic  thrill, 

As  of  his  presence,  shook  the  lonely  place  ? 
Why  did  her  feet,  like  one  on  holy  ground, 
Tread  lightly  as  if  fearing  mortal  sound  ? 

So  lightly  treading,  did  she  pause  before 
The  pictured  image  of  her  loved  and  lost. 

The  summer  sunshine,  through  the  open  door, 
Above  the  broad  poetic  forehead  crossed; 

An  aureole  of  light,  it  crowned  his  brows 

With  crown  more  royal  than  this  earth  allows. 

Ay,  and  upon  her  pallid  features  fell 
The  same  bright  glory  and  celestial  calm. 

Some  influence,  her  long  regret  to  quell, 

Seemed  floating  round  her,  like  a  solemn  psalm 

That  chants  the  mystery  of  life  and  death, 

Rebuking  sobbing  cry  and  quivering  breath. 


A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

It  was  as  if  she,  too,  were  rapt  away 
To  the  far  regions  hidden  from  our  view; 

As  if  the  radiance  of  eternal  day 
Sundered  the  pearly  gates,  and,  shining  through, 

Piercing  the  shadowy  mists  that  cloud  our  gaze, 

Had  opened  wide  the  realm  of  love  and  praise. 


Yes,  they  were  there,  her  mourned  for, her  beloved! 

The  darlings  who  had  slumbered  on  her  heart; 
And  he  whose  footsteps  with  her  own  had  moved, 

So  blent,  of  life  itself  they  seemed  a  part. 
Ah,  did  he  from  those  shining  heights  descend, 
To  comfort  her,  his  earliest,  sweetest  friend  ? 

Oh,  holy  eyes!  how  tenderly  ye  shone, 

In  your  dark  beauty,  on  the  suppliant  there. 

Oh,  lips  of  sweetness!  did  a  whispered  tone, 
Of  benediction  thrill  the  listening  air  ? 

Oh,  helpful,  gracious  hands!  did  ye  enfold, 

In  your  warm  clasp,  those  trembling  fingers  cold  ? 

So  dreamed  she:  with  unconscious,  fond  caress, 
As  oft  of  old,  she  lightly  touched  his  hair. 

Sad,  weary  eyes!   what  hope,  what  tenderness, 
What  deathless  rapture,  made  ye  passing  fair! 

For  one  swift  moment,  Heaven  around  her  lay  ; 

The  next — the  sunshine  of  an  earthly  day. 


14  A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

Yes,  thro'  the  doorway,  still  the  morning  light, 
The  glad  June  morning,  glorified  the  room  ; 

And  still  it  swept,  in  its  effulgence  bright, 
From  those  loved  features  every  lingering  gloom. 

But  lonely,  lonely,  seemed  the  sunlit  place, 

As  mutely  mourning  for  a  vanished  grace. 


Nay,  had  it  vanished?     Had  her  eyes  beheld? 

Or  was  it  fleeting  fancy,  fleet  as  fair? 
The  canvas  trembling,  by  her  touch  impelled, 

Gave  silent  answer  to  her  dumb  despair  : 
From  the  carved  frame,  fell,  fluttering  to  her  feet, 
A  dove-like  messenger  of  comfort  sweet. 

Oh,  pure  !  Oh,  spotless  !  as  the  spotless  snow  ! 

Had  been  those  pages,  lingered  o'er  by  love  ; 
(How  could  Love's  tender  prophecy  foreknow, 

In  those  glad  days,  what  after  days  must  prove  ?) 
Now  stained  and  faded  ;  yet  more  dear  than  life, 
To  her  who  traced  the  legend — "  For  my  wife" 

Blue  were  the  ribbons  loosely  knotted  round 
The  leaves  that  told  the  story  of  the  past ; 

And  tremblingly  her  slender  fingers  found 
The  secret  of  their  binding,  and  unclaspt 

The  silken  fetters  that,  thro'  time  and  change 

Had  held  their  trust  from  hands  profane  or  strange. 


A  COTTAGE  GRAY.  j«j 

Ah,  not  to  careless  heart,  to  careless  mind, 
Those  pure  and  tender  oracles  might  speak. 

Love's  meaning  only  is  by  Love  divined  ; 
To  soothe  Love's  anguish,  only  Love  dare  seek. 

No  alien  presence  may  from  grief  decoy  ; 

No  alien  presence  may  enhance  our  joy. 

What  were  they  ? — Snatches  sweet  of  truant  song  ; 

Sweet  echoes  from  the  music  of  the  past. 
Her  spirit  felt  them,  as  the  traveler — long 

Inured  to  dusty  highways — feels  at  last 
The  shade  of  trees,  the  fragrance  wafted  by, 
The  fountain's  warble,  from  some  garden,  nigh. 

Again  before  her  rose  that  April  day — 
The  fresh,  fair  dawning  of  her  marriage  morn  ; 

The  while  she  read  the  pure,  impassioned  lay 
That  told  how  dear,  how  blest,  its  loved  return. 

And  if  the  page  with  dropping  tears  was  wet, 

They  fell  for  dear  remembrance — not  regret. 

I  hear  thy  sweet  voice  in  the  hall, 

I  hear  thy  light  step  on  the  stair  ; 
And  the  sense  of  thy  presence  I  feel, 

In  blessing  and  grace  everywhere. 

While  I  marvel  and  muse  in  my  heart, 
That  the  Heavens  such  grace  should  bestow  ; 

That  my  feet  were  found  worthy  to  pass 
Thro'  the  gates  of  our  Eden  below. 


!6  A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

And  I  ponder  the  years  that  have  fled  ; 

And  I  question  them  all :  Is  it  true, 
That  my  spirit  could  soar  and  be  glad, 

Ere  it  found  inspiration  in  you  ? 

How  sped  ye,  sweet  summers  of  yore  ! 

Who  knew  not  the  charm  of  her  smile  ? 
How  sped  ye,  dark,  loitering  days  ! 

Of  winters  she  could  not  beguile? 

Is  it  only  a  year,  then — a  year  ? 

Since  I  found  thee,  and  claimed  thee,  my  own  ? 
And  the  star  of  thy  being  became 

A  star  for  my  pathway  alone. 

Oh,  let  me  not,  let  me  not  dream 

Of  a  day  that  to  others  has  come  ! 
Who  have  loved,  and  have  triumphed,  like  me — 

Who  have  wept  o'er  a  desolate  home. 

From  my  gaze,  let  the  future  be  veiled  ; 

Sweet  Heaven  !  its  secrets  conceal. 
More  exquisite  bliss  than  to-day's 

I  know  it  can  never  reveal. 

Soft  eyes,  that  have  answered  my  own  ! 

Dear,  dear  little  hands  that  I  hold  ! 
Ye  are  mine,  without  falter  or  doubt, 

Whatever  the  years  may  unfold. 


A  COTTAGE  GRAY.  17 

Ah,  cruel,  flitting  dread  !  that  comes  and  goes, 
And  pierces  thro'  the  very  heart  of  bliss. 

Where  is  the  deep  tranquility  that  knows 
Naught  of  thy  anguish,  in  a  world  like  this  ? 

Creatures  of  Fate  !  what  ransom  must  we  pay, 

For  the  sweet,  careless  rapture  of  to-day. 

The  mother,  bending  o'er  her  first-born,  feels 
The  chilling  terror  strike  her  unaware. 

The  lover  trembles,  as  its  cold  breath  steals 
Between  him  and  the  face  he  deems  so  fair. 

Sad  prophecy,  and  stern  !  of  hope  bereft : 

11  One  shall  be  taken,  and  the  other  left." 

Yet  are  there  happy  moments,  breathing  all 
Of  promise,  and  of  deep  delight  in  store  ; 

And  the  heart  answers  to  the  gracious  call — 
Forgets  the  vain  perplexities  of  yore  ; 

Nor  questions  of  the  future  ;  fain  to  rest, 

A  little  while,  from  doubt's  unquiet  quest. 

Of  such  a  day,  of  such  an  hour,  she  read. 

Still    throbbed    her    pulses     with    the    opening 

spring ; 
Still  seemed  her  step  the  woodland  ways  to  tread, 

Still  round  her  did  the  sylvan  music  ring. 
Ah,  fairyland  of  youth  and  hope  !  No  more 
May  the  fond  exile  see  thy  vanished  shore. 


!8  A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

1 '  We  will  not  rest  at  home  to-day  ; 

It  were  a  sin,"  my  dearest  said. 
Then,  wilful,  put  my  book  away  ; 
And,  freshly  smiling  as  the  May, 

Cried,  "  Read  sweet  Nature's  book  instead  !" 

And  I  ?    Ah,  I  was  well  content 

To  follow  where  her  footsteps  led  ; 
As  on  my  arm  she  lightly  leant, 
Thro'  fragrant  wood-ways  spring  be-sprent 
With  blossoms  purple,  white,  and  red. 

From  north  to  south,  from  east  to  west, 
Flew  happy  birds  in  twittering  joy  ; 

Nor  feared  that  we  their  secret  guessed, 

Nor  feared  the  rudely  curious  quest 
That  would  their  artless  toil  destroy. 

Still  fearless  of  the  plunderer,  Man, 
The  squirrel  for  a  moment's  space 

Paused,  the  intruders  rare  to  scan  ; 

Then,  swiftly  startled,  swiftly  ran 
To  shelter  in  his  hiding  place. 

The  boughs  above  us  interlaced, 

A  fairy  canopy  of  green  ; 
Upon  the  sward  beneath  we  traced 
The  young  leaves'  trembling  shadow,  chased 

Where  fell  the  sunlight's  golden  sheen. 


A  COTTA  GE  GRA  Y.  19 

So,  blithely  did  we  wander  on  ; 

And  lost  and  found,  the  winding  way. 
And  many  a  woodland  trophy  won, 
From  coy  retreats  of  shade  or  sun, 

That  well  might  longer  quest  repay. 

But  fairer  than  the  fairest  prize 

Of  loveliness  we  stooped  to  win, 
The  blushing  cheek,  the  radiant  eyes, 
That  needed  not  the  lips'  replies 

To  speak  the  deep  delight  within. 

"  And  has  the  day  so  swiftly  fled  ?" 
She  sighed,  as  nearer  home  we  drew, 

And  pointed  where  with  rosy  red, 

And  countless  hues  in  beauty  wed, 
The  west  had  dappled  all  the  blue. 

Oh,  fair  the  morning's  early  beam  ! 

And  fair  the  glory  of  the  eve  ! 
And  if  the  vision  fleeting  seem, 
Not  less  will  we  the  rapture  deem, 

Not  all  ungrateful  will  we  grieve. 

Who  says  that  May  will  soon  be  past  ? 

The  blossom  and  the  flower  decay  ? 
That  bleak  November's  whirling  blast 
Will  leave  the  landscape  bare,  at  last, 

Of  all  that  makes  it  fair  to-day  ? 


20  A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

Who  says  that  every  life  below 
Must  feel,  at  last,  the  winter's  sting  ? 

But  if  it  come  to  us,  I  know 

That  over  all  its  wastes  will  blow 
The  fragrant  promise  of  the  Spring. 

How  lightly,  when  the  hurried  hour  is  past, 
Do  we  forget  the  fortune  lost  or  won. 

Not  o'er  the  busy  bustling  scene  is  cast 
The  last  clear  beam  of  life's  declining  sun. 

Nay,  but  the  lingering  glory  fondly  plays 
Round  some  sequestered    spot  where  Memory 
strays. 

Sweet  fireside  converse  of  familiar  friends  ; 

Small,  childish  hands  close-clasped  upon  your 

knee, 
Dark  eyes  uplifted— when  the  story  ends— 

With  wistful  question,  what  the  next  shall  be  ; 
The  dear  good-night,  the  gentle  prayer  that  we 
The  morning  hour  in  peace  and  health  may  see  ; — 

Who  looks  not  backward  to  a  scene  like  this, 
When  lonely  evening  darkens  into  night  ? 

Who  wakes  from  slumber,— when  the  sunbeams 

kiss 
The  royal  mountains  yearning  for  the  light — 

And  shrinks  not  from  the  glory  of  the  dawn. 

If,  dimmed  and  dazzled,  gaze  their  eyes  alone? 


A  CO TTA GE  GRA  Y.  2I 

O,  happy  mother  !  while  the  soft  caress 
Of  baby  arms  around  thy  neck  is  thrown  ; 

Oh,  happy  wife  !  whom  love  and  honor  bless — 
Weep  for  the  stricken  heart  that  makes  its  moan! 

Ah,  tremble  in  your  rapture  :  who  can  say, 

When  morning  breaks,  what  storms  shall  cloud  the 
day? 

Fair,  fair  as  thine,  her  morning  star  arose. 

"  Too  fair  for  earth  !"  those  trembling  lips  reply, 
While,  even  yet,  thro'  twilight's  darkening  close, 

Some  faint  reflection  from  that  radiant  sky 
Pierces  the  gloom,  and  shines  above  the  page 
That  keeps  the  record  of  her  golden  age. 

Did  you  guess  my  thought,  my  Sweet  ? — 

When  our  glances  met  to-day, 
She  was  sitting  at  your  feet, 

Half  in  earnest,  half  in  play, 
With  her  sewing — little  May. 

What  a  baby  hand  it  seemed, 
•    As  she  drew  the  needle  thro'  ! 
And  the  tiny  thimble  gleamed 

After  it,  like  silver  dew. 
Life's  first  lesson,  May,  for  you. 

On  the  rosy  dimpled  face 
What  a  serious  sweetness  lay  ! 


22  A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

Woman's  wisdom,  frolic  grace 
Of  free  childhood  chased  away — 
Answering  the  call  to  play. 

While  you  praised  the  task  complete, 
And  your  hand,  in  mute  caress, 

Folded  up  the  kerchief  neat 
With  a  wistful  tenderness, — 
I,  your  inmost  thought  could  guess. 

Ah,  my  May  !  your  soft  eyes  said, 
As  you  watched  her  careless  glee — 

You  have  woven  the  first  thread 
In  a  woman's  destiny, 
Of  the  warp  and  woof  to  be. 

Will  the  web  be  dark  or  bright, 
That  the  years  to  come  unfold  ? 

Heart  of  mine  !  He  doeth  right, 
Who  the  tangled  skein  doth  hold. 
Who,  His  loving  care  hath  told  ! 

But  I  watched  the  merry  elf 

Dancing  down  thro'  sun  and  shade, 

Thinking, — So  she  looked  herself, 
So  my  darling  little  maid, 
Grave  and  winsome,  worked  and  played. 


A  COTTAGE  GRAY.  . 

You,  the  future — I,  the  past, 
Mused  of  with  a  tender  pain  : 

Shadows  dimly  o'er  us  cast, 

We  might  strive  to  pierce  in  vain, 
Vexed  our  eyes  with  hopeless  strain. 

Is  there  gain  for  every  loss  ? 

Ah,  the  lives  to  which  we  cling, 
They  may  bear  their  heaviest  cross — ' 

May  their  sweetest  music  sing, 

All  unhelped  of  aught  we  bring. 

I,  who  hold  your  woman's  heart, 

Jealous,  dearest,  just  of  this — 
That  my  childhood  had  no  part 

In  your  childhood's  pain  or  bliss  ? 

Answer,  love,  the  lips  I  kiss. 

Foolish  fancy,  sweetest  wife  ! 

Yet  I  could  not  choose  but  say  : 
Ah,  that  I  had  known  her  life, 

In  the  dawning  of  her  day — 

Known  the  springtime  of  my  May 

He  doeth  right:     And  can  her  heart  repeat 
Such  words  of  trust,  unfaltering  as  of  yore  ? 

Ah,  yes  !     The  way  was  all  too  rough,  my  sweet; 
So  in  his  arms  the  tender  Shepherd  bore 

My  little  lamb,  to  that  serener  air — 

Those  greener  pastures;  she  but  waits  me  there. 


24  A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

Fall,  gentle  tears;  tho'  now  no  tender  hand 
May  wipe  you  from  the  thin  and  faded  cheek, 

Tho'  now  no  pitying  eye  may  understand 
The  silent  anguish  words  can  never  speak. 

Fall,  gentle  tears;  and  soften,  as  ye  flow, 

The  mournful  story  of  the  long  ago. 

Ah,  baby  May  !  thou  wert  a  bird  of  spring — 
A  blossom  sparkling  in  the  morning  dew. 

Thou  wert  too  lovely  and  too  frail  a  thing, 
To  linger  here;  the  ruthless  wind  that  blew 

A  blight  upon  thy  beauty,  left  no  sign 

Of  its  despoiling,  save  on  bloom  like  thine. 

Ah,  baby  May;  thy  little  hour  was  brief; 

Thy  liquid  carol  ended,  scarce  begun. 
Thy  blossom  faded,  ere  the  folded  leaf 

Had  oped  its  hidden  treasure  to  the  sun. 
Yet  was  this  earth  more  sacred,  and  more  dear, 
To  two  fond  hearts,  for  thy  fleet  presence  here. 

Oh,  we  were  happy,  dearest  love  ! 

Oh,  we  were  glad  at  heart  with  life  ! 
To  music  did  the  moments  move, 

When  first  I  called  thee  wife. 

To  mellow  music  moved  they  then; 

Our  sky  was  blue,  our  song  was  sweet. 
Apart  from  crowded  ways  of  men, 

We  strayed  with  careless  feet. 


A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

And  lovely  Nature,  ever  young, 
Her  fairest  secrets  did  disclose; 

For  us,  the  wild-bird's  carol  rung, 
And  bloomed  for  us,  the  rose. 

And  gentle  annals  of  the  hearth 

For  us  a  tender  beauty  had; 
We  joyed  in  spirit  with  the  mirth 

That  made  our  neighbor  glad. 

Each  charming  aspect,  fair  and  gay, 
Of  life  or  nature,  drew  us  near; 

We  gazed,  unconscious  of  the  sway 
Of  sin  and  sorrow  here. 

For  oh,  the  world  must  needs  be  fair, 
Must  needs  be  good,  that  sheltered  her  \ 

And  soft  as  Eden  winds  the  air 
That  o'er  our  flower  should  stir. 

Oh,  days  of  gladness — passing  soon  ! 

Oh,  dawns  and  sunsets  ! — never  more 
May  radiance  clear  of  sun  and  moon 

Your  golden  light  restore. 

And  has  the  music  passed  away  ? 

And  has  the  changing  splendor  fled 
From  sapphire  skies  of  yesterday  ? 

Are  song  and  beauty  dead  ? 


26  A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

It  could  not  be  a  life  so  frail 

Such  wealth  of  hope  and  rapture  gave, 
That  since  we  watched  it  fade  and  fail 

Our  hearts  are  in  the  grave  ? 

What  comfort  in  the  dreary  night  ? 

What  promise  in  the  cheerless  morn  ? 
It  was  for  her  we  hailed  the  light, 

And  marked  the  hours'  return. 

Oh,  heart  impatient !  foolish  heart ! 

(I  hear  a  mystic  voice  complain,) 
Unworthy  thou,  to  bear  a  part 

In  sorrow's  sacred  strain. 

Thine  eyes,  anointed>  would  discern 
The  royal  crown  which  grief  bestows; 

Thy  lips  a  truer  music  learn 
Than  weak  lamenting  knows. 

Draw  nearer,  nearer — dear,  my  own  ! 

And  lay  thy  gentle  hand  in  mine. 
My  darling  !  not  in  joy  alone 

My  spirit  answers  thine. 

Ah,  sweet !  thine  eyes  are  dim  with  tears, 
Yet  still  they  shine  upon  my  way, 

And  purer,  nobler,  Love  appears, 
Than  on  that  happier  day. 


A  COTTAGE  GRAY.  27 

Oh,  Earth  !  thy  loveliness  may  never  shine, 
As  once  it  shone  to  eyes  undimmed  by  tears; 

Oh,  Life  !  no  more  thy  ruddy,  sparkling  wine, 
Tho'  quaffed  by  eager  lips,  can  vanquish  fears; 

Where  once  the  shadow  of  the  doom  hath  crept, 

What  soul,  insensate,  careless  dalliance  kept  ? 

Thro'  happiest  hours  we  feel  the  sense  of  loss. 

Love's  dear  caresses  thrill  with  secret  pain 
The  stricken  heart,  that,  moaning  'neath  its  cross, 

Of  fleet  forgetfulness  full  oft  were  fain. 
Sweet  lips,  sweet  eyes,  sweet  trick  of  falling  hair — 
Too  true  reminders  of  the  past  ye  were  ! 

The  Past  !  the  Past !  It  hath  a  royal  reign. 

Immortal  and  unchangeable,  it  holds 
Its  scepter  ;  while  the  seasons  wax  and  wane, 

While — dark  or  bright — the  future  scene  unfolds. 
Immutable  its  realm  ;  untouched  its  sway  ; 
Its  treasures,  moth  nor  rust  can  e'er  decay. 

The  Past !  To  her— oh,  blessed  want  of  sight  !— 
The  future  was  a  sealed,  unstudied  page. 

All  life  could  give  of  promise,  of  delight, 
The  past  enshrined  ;  what  future  might  engage 

Her  lingering  thought  ?    That  prospect  bleak  and 
bare — 

That  lonely  land  ? — She  were  an  alien  there. 


28  A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

Still,  as  she  read,  her  heart  kept  time  with  his, 
And  thrilled  with  memory  of  that  early  grief; 

And  still  her  tears  fell  fast,  for  vanished  bliss  ; 
And  still  she  shared  his  tender,  pure  belief. 

Aye,  once  again,  her  lips  the  words  repeat — 

The  old,  old  words  of  supplication  sweet. 

I  saw  thee,  yester  eve  ; 

When,  standing  in  the  alcove's  draperied  gloom, 
I  watched  the  rosy,  fitful  firelight  weave 

Its  wierd,  fantastic  beauty  o'er  the  room. 

Beside  thy  knee  she  knelt, 

Our  Una — once  she  had  not  knelt  alone  ; 
And  were  it  fancy,  were  it  truth,  I  felt, 

Unseen,  an  angel  presence  near  her  own. 

Didst  thou  not  feel  it,  too  ? 

Close-clasping  hand,  so  baby-small  and  fair, 
Sweet  faltering  voice, — oh,  not  alone  of  you, 

A  mother's  thought,  a  mother's  love  was  'ware. 

"  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

My  darling  !  soon  thy  little  race  was  run. 
I  know  thee  blest ;  yet  can  not  choose  but  weep, 

That  thou  so  early  that  long  rest  hast  won. 

For  we  must  journey  on, 

Thro'  sun  and  shadow,  all  the  lengthening  way  ; 
Nor  step  must  falter,  tho'  the  spring  be  gone, 

And  faded  from  us  our  sweet  flower  of  May. 


A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

Oh,  pardon  !  sweet  my  child  ! 

I  wrong  thee  so,  with  fretful  murmuring       ^ 
Heaven's  comforter  thou  art,  that  oft  beguiled 

The  weary  heart  of  Memory's  ceaseless  pain. 

Yet  is  it  bitter-sweet 

To  gaze  upon  thy  face,  and  think  of  her  ; 
And  hear  thy  silver  voice,  and  watch  thy  feet 

Dance  lightly  o'er  the  flowers  she  may  not  stir. 

But  most  when  evening  falls, 

My    heart    is  thrilled,  to  watch  thee    kneeling 

there  : 
/  know  another  voice,  with  thine,  recalls 

The  old,  beloved,  unforgotten  prayer. 

"  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

Ah,  well  may  childhood's  lips  the  words  essay  ! 
And  well  a  mother's  saintly  love  may  keep 

The  pure  petition — teaching  them  to  pray. 

But  worn  with  worldly  strife, 

And  tossed  with  doubting,  who  dare  enter  in 
Where  Innocence  abides?    What  vanquished  life 

That  early,  fervent,  perfect  faith  may  win  ? 

Ah,  dear  the  childish  prayer 

My  Una  uttered  !  Still  my  soul  would  keep 
Its  simple  music  ;  still,  with  her,  would  share 

The  old  refrain  :  "  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 


30  A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

Oh,  since  that  sorrow,  bitter  tears  have  stained 
The  luster  of  thy  beauty,  gentle  eyes. 

While    daylight    darkened,    while    the    midnight 

waned, 
Ye  kept  your  vigil:  never  dawn  might  rise 

Again  for  thee— tho'  flushed  with  radiance  bright 

The  far  horizon  heralded  the  light. 

So,  once  above  thy  couch,  Love's  tender  eyes 
Kept  watch  and  ward,  as  those  that  look  for  day, 

Saw  Hope's  pure,  trembling,  morning  star  arise, 
And  all  the  murky  shades  of  night  decay. 

But  I,  (she  crieth)  darkling  ways  have  trod — 

The  Valley  of  the  Shadow,  oh,  my  God  ! 

I  have  watched  beside  thee,  dear, 

Thro'  the  dark,  the  dreary  night ; 
I  have  seen  the  dawning  clear 

Come  with  fragrance,  song,  and  light. 

Now  the  fevered  pulse  is  still, 

And  the  heavy  eyelids  close  ; 
How  with  trembling  hope  I  thrill, 

While  I  guard  thy  deep  repose. 

Ah,  thy  cheek  is  pale  and  wan, 

That  was  like  the  bloom  of  May  ; 
All  the  rounded  outlines  gone, 

Where  the  smiles  were  wont  to  play. 


A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

On  thy  forehead  broad  and  fair, 
Doth  a  sacred  beauty  dwell : 

Hast  thou  seen  the  vision  rare, 
Mortal  tongue  may  never  tell  ? 

Whisper,  whisper  to  me,  love  ! 

For  I  tremble  while  I  gaze, 
Lest  thy  spirit,  rapt  above, 

May  forget  our  earthly  ways. 

Yet  a  little  while  return 
To  the  paths  beloved  of  yore  ; 

To  the  hearts  bereft,  that  yearn 
For  thy  presence  evermore. 

Oh,  methought  if  I  should  miss 
From  the  circle  of  the  year, 

All  the  tender  hope,  the  bliss, 
That  has  made  my  life  so  dear,— 

Could  I  meet  the  dawning  day, 
With  a  spirit  brave  and  true  ? 

Hand  and  brain,  might  they  essay 
Tasks  that  once  were  shared  by  you  ? 

Ah,  my  darling  !  when  the  toil 
Of  the  lonely  day  was  done, 

What  reward  for  care  and  moil 
Would  be  mine,  at  set  of  sun  ? 


32  A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

Not  the  welcome  of  thy  eyes, 
Not  the  music  of  thy  voice, 

Silence  sweet,  nor  soft  replies, 
Then  might  make  my  heart  rejoice. 

Hush  !  I  will  not  idly  dream  : 
Thou  art  all  my  own  again  ! 

God  be  praised  !  who  did  redeem 
From  the  terror  and  the  pain. 

God  be  praised  !  who  linked  our  lives 
With  a  golden  chain,  in  one. 

Death,  nor  life,  nor  sorrow,  rives 
What  the  hand  of  Love  hath  spun. 

To  the  realms  of  pure  delight 
Wert  thou  truly  called,  to-day, 

Still  thy  angel  glance  would  light 
All  my  darkling  earthly  way. 

I  would  feel  thy  holy  eyes 
Bent  upon  me  from  above  : 

Every  vain  ambition  dies 
In  the  radiance  clear  of  Love. 

Oh,  to  meet  thee,  dearest,  there  ! 

Could  that  bliss  indeed  be  mine  ? 
Shall  the  voice  that  shared  thy  prayer, 

Mingle  in  thy  praise  divine  ? 


A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

Couldst  thou  linger  here  below, 
If  to  me  the  the  summons  came  ? 

Nay,  my  raptured  soul,  I  know, 
Still  thy  tender  thought  would  claim. 

Thro'  the  silence  of  the  dark, 
Thro'  the  voices  of  the  day, 

Would  thy  yearning  spirit  hark 
For  the  voice  that  called — Away  ! 

But  the  shadows  part  and  fly  ; 

And  the  golden  dawn  up-springs 
In  the  dazzling  summer  sky, 

Life  and  healing  on  its  wings. 

From  the  mountain  height  beyond 
Every  lingering  mist  is  borne  : 

Thrilling  heart  and  lip,  respond 
To  the  prophecy  of  morn  ! 

Leaps  the  fountain  in  the  sun  ; 

In  the  covert,  sings  the  bird  : 
Life  and  hope,  anew  begun, 

Hath  thro'  every  being  stirred. 

Ah,  my  darling  !  God  is  good  : 
He  hath  made  the  light  to  shine  ; 

And  the  darkness,  understood, 
Will  but  teach  His  love  divine. 


33 


34  A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

Slant  morning  sunbeams  touched  a  cottage  gray, 
Silent  and  lonely,  in  the  village  street. 

Unsought,  amid  the  stream  of  life  it  lay, 
Like  some  forsaken  isle  where  currents  meet; 

Eastward,  and  westward,  drift  the  barges  on — 

But  welcome  or  farewell,  for  it,  have  none. 


Yet,  all  unseen,  thro'  shadowing  hours  of  night, 
A  messenger  had  entered,  even  there. 

No  hand  had  tried  the  portal,  knocking  light; 
No  footstep  echoed  on  the  silent  stair. 

But,  unto  her  who  waited,  summons  came; 

And  she  arose,  and  answered  to  her  name. 

O  Death  !  unbroken  is  thy  sacred  spell: 
No  mortal  lips  thy  secret  may  reveal. 

Unto  thy  chosen  only,  dost  thou  tell 

The  meaning  of  thy  message.     Doth  it  heal 

Life's  fever-pain  ?    Oh,  doth  it  surcease  bring 

To  Hope's  vain  longing, — Sorrow's  ceaseless  sting? 

Ah,  sure  upon  her  pallid  face  was  set 

The  seal  of  some  ineffable  delight ! 
Some  bliss  unspeakable  illumined  yet 

Those  darkened  eyes,  and  forehead  deathly  white. 
As  if  the  ransomed  spirit  backward  threw 
One  glad  exultant  glance,  ere  it  withdrew. 


A  CO  TTA  GE  GRA  Y.  35 

Still  held  her  hand  the  story  of  the  past. 

Oh,  closely  clasped,  against  her  heart  it  lay  ! 
The  glory  of  the  morning  round  her  cast 

As  pure,  as  golden,  as  serene  a  ray, 
As  when  above  that  pictured  image  dear 
She  watched  the  heavenly  radiance  shining  clear. 

Still  seemed  his  eyes  above  her  rest  to  keep 

The  faithful  vigil  of  a  holy  love. 
Ah,  she  hath  wakened  from  grief's  fevered  sleep, 

To  Truth's  reality  — which  naught  can  move. 
Here  hath  she  known  in  part,  with  seeking  vain, 
There t  the  full  knowledge  shall  her  soul  attain. 

Whose  hand  the  gate  celestial  opened  wide  ? 

Whose  voice  was  first  to  give  her  welcome  home  ? 
We  may  not  pierce  the  mists,  tho'  glorified 

With  far  reflected  radiance  from  the  dome 
Of  the  Eternal  City:  earth-bound  eyes 
Are  all  too  dim,  to  gaze  upon  the  skies. 

Oh,  wondrous  vision  !  when  the  spirit  breaks 
From  grievous  thralldom  of  this  prison-cell. 

When  mad  Ambition  from  delirium  wakes; 
And  sordid  Wealth  no  more  his  gold  may  tell. 

Earth  !   Earth  !    (they  cry,)  thou  hast  no  treasure 
rare, 

That  may  with  lost  and  slighted  love  compare  ! 


36  A  COTTAGE  GRAY. 

O  Thou,  the  Love  Supreme  !    To  Thee  we  lift, 
From  hearts,  or  glad,  or  sighing,  contrite  praise. 

Not  here  we  know  the  fullness  of  thy  gift; 
Not  here,  unworthy,  may  our  voices  raise 

The  choral  music.     Yet,  to  Thee  we  come: 

Lord\  open  to  us  Love's  eternal  home  ! 


MADONNA. 

IS  there  ever  a  bosom  so  tender, 
I  wonder,  where  Sorrow  may  hide  ? 
Where  Repentance  may  fly,  and  surrender 

The  past  unto  Love's  whelming  tide  ? 
Where  never  a  glance  will  awaken 

The  shame  and  the  anguish  of  years; 

But,  when  lonely,  defamed,  and  forsaken, 

A  rainbow  Hope  makes  of  our  tears. 

On  this  earth,  where  we  have  our  abiding, 

'Twere  pitiful  if  there  were  none  ! 
Oh,  we  meet  with  but  scorn  and  deriding 

From  all  that  we  trusted,  save  one. 
The  warm-beating  heart  of  a  mother 

Throbs  true  in  our  bitterest  woe; 
Nor  wrong,  nor  misfortune,  can  smother 

The  light  of  her  love's  steady  glow. 

If  guilty,  we  fly  to  her  bosom; 

If  wretched,  we  find  there  relief. 
From  the  dawn  of  our  infancy's  blossom, 

She  has  known  all  our  joy  and  our  grief. 

37 


38  MADONNA. 

The  worst  we  have  done,  and  have  spoken, 
The  best  that  our  struggle  has  won, — 

Has  left  her  fond  faith  all  unbroken, 
Uusullied,  forever  our  own. 

In  the  world,  with  its  evil  surmising, 

No  place  for  repentance  is  found; 
It  will  gaze,  and  pass  on  ward,  despising; 

Or  pause,  to  probe  deeper  the  wound. 
But  her  heart  has  forgotten  the  sinning— 

Her  heart  has  remembered  the  truth; 
And  our  soul  in  that  love  is  re-winning 

The  joy  and  the  peace  of  our  youth. 

Oh,  her  love  is  the  promise  and  token 

Of  the  Love  that  encircles  us  all; 
Sweet  its  words  to  the  penitent  spoken, 

Uplifting  to  hope  those  who  fall : 
"And,  no  more" — saith  the  Infinite  Pity — 

"Transgression  remembered  shall  be," 
When  the  gates  of  the  Beautiful  City 

Are  opened  to  you  and  to  me. 


IN  SPRINGTIME:      A  MEMORY. 

I  WAS  a  child  as  yet.     Nine  happy  years, 
With  all  their  varying  lights  and  shades,  had 

fled; 

My  heart  had  never  known  or  grief,  or  fears, 
Life's  morning  glories  all  were  round  me  shed. 

And  from  the  memories  of  that  blessed  time, 
I  fain  would  draw  a  picture  for  thine  eyes, 

Of  one  who  early  left  the  world's  cold  clime, 
To  seek  a  home  amid  her  native  skies. 

Oh,  freshly,  as  it  were  but  yesterday, 
The  sweet  May  air  about  my  temples  thrills  ! 

I  see  the  apple  blossoms  bend  and  sway, 
And  their  faint  perfume  all  the  garden  fills. 

While  gathered  in  the  rustic  porch,  we  played — 
Gay,  happy  children,  innocent  and  free; 

The  sunshine  and  the  winds  around  us  strayed, 
And  the  bright  season  filled  our  hearts  with  glee. 

39 


40  IN  SPRINGTIME:    A  MEMORY. 

When,  in  some  pause  of  earnest  childish  thought, 
We  heard  a  light,  swift  footstep  passing  by; 

And  looking  up,  our  eager  glances  caught 
The  beaming  welcome  of  her  love-lit  eye. 

Ah,  those  dear  eyes  !  they  thrill  my  spirit  yet; 

They  shine  upon  me  thro'  the  weary  years. 
Oh,  will  they  bless  me,  where  no  wild  regret 

Can  dim  their  luster  with  its  bitter  tears  ? 

And  still,  sweet  sister  !  do  I  hear  thy  voice 
Those  gentle  words  so  tenderly  repeat; 

And  still,  in  memory,  does  my  heart  rejoice, 
And  bound  in  answer  to  its  cadence  sweet. 

Hadst  thou  but  seen  her  then  !    So  young,  so  fair — 
Crowned  with  the  glory  of  the  morning  light, 

That  turned  to  gold  the  shadows  of  her  hair, 
And  wrapt  her  in  its  influence  warm  and  bright; — 

Hadst  thou  but  met  the  gaze  of  those  soft  eyes  ! 

Clear  wells  of  thought,   where  truth  lay  shining 

thro'; 
Whose  pensive  beauty  mirrored  back  the  skies 

That  arched  above  her  in  their  living  blue; — 

Thou  wouldst  have  said  that  ne'er  could  pencil  trace 
A  fairer  picture  than  was  there  revealed; 

Tho'  all  the  inner  loveliness  and  grace 
Of  spirit,  from  thy  vision  had  been  sealed. 


IN  SPRINGTIME:  A  MEMORY.  ±i 

Oh,  it  was  these  that  made  her  doubly  dear — 
The  priceless,  hidden  treasures  of  the  soul: 

The  tender  human  love,  the  faith  sincere — 
These  crowned,  and  blessed,  and  glorified  the 
whole  ! 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,  divinely  fair  ! 

Reigned  in  that  gentle  heart  with  regal  sway. 
And  shed  around  her  footsteps,  everywhere, 

A  radiance  that  could  never  know  decay. 

Faith — child-like,  trusting,  yet  of  knowledge  born — 
That  rested  on  the  gracious  promise  given; 

And  Hope,  that  ever  prophesied  the  morn, 
And  sought  to  soar  on  eager  wing  to  heaven. 

But  Love  the  key-note  gave,  that  tuned  the  whole; 

And  touched  the  chords  to  harmony  complete. 
Love  that  was  lavished  from  a  royal  soul, 

Yet  sat  with  Mary  at  the  Master's  feet. 

Oh,  not  for  earth  alone,  such  life  fulfilled 
Its  dawn  of  beauty  !    Far  beyond  our  ken — 

By  wayward  winds  of  changing  Time  unchilled — 
It  blooms  to  perfect  loveliness  again. 

Ah,  sweet  May  morning  of  the  long  ago  ! 

Unfaded  art  thou,  tho'  the  years  pass  by. 
And  deep  within  my  heart  the  hope  I  know, 

That  beckons  to  me  from  thy  radiant  sky. 


MRS.  BROWNING'S  "  AURORA 
LEIGH." 

"  To  thee,  my  alter  ego,  dearer  still  for  every  mood." 

OH,  book  of  my  spirit  beloved, 
Of  my  fondest  remembrance  a  part ! 
Thy  grace  and  thy  sweetness  hath  moved 
The  innermost  deep  of  my  heart. 

Yet  not  for  the  melody  poured 

Thro'  thy  rhythm,  oh,  marvelous  strain  ! 
Tho'  never  such  singer  had  soared, 

The  portal  celestial  to  gain; 

And  not  for  thy  message  divine, 

Evangel  of  hope  and  of  love  ! 
(Tho'  a  pilgrim,  I  knelt  at  thy  shrine,) 

Does  my  soul  its  allegiance  prove. 

Nay,  dearer  the  links  that  have  bound 
My  past  and  my  future  to  thee: 

Loved  book  !     In  thy  pages  I  found 
A  treasure  more  precious  to  me. 

42 


MRS.  BROWNING'S  ''AURORA  LEIGH."          43 

Oh,  voice,  that  interpreted  clear 
(Sweet  voice  !  on  its  falls  I  would  die  !) 

All  the  hope,  and  the  rapture,  and  fear — 
Life's  pean  and  quivering  sigh; 

To  its  music  I  listen  again, 

As  over  the  pages  I  lean; 
It  throbs  in  the  joy  and  the  pain, 

Like  the  voice  of  a  singer  unseen. 

Yes,  here  did  it  falter  and  break: 

I  remember,  the  blue  of  her  eyes 
Was  dimmed,  like  some  cloud-shadowed  lake 

That  reflects  every  hue  of  the  skies. 

And  holy  the  tributue,  and  rare, 

Of  tears  from  a  fountain  so  pure. 
O  poet !  such  meed  may  compare 

With  aught  that  thy  fame  shall  secure. 

How  soft  was  the  clasp  of  her  hand, 
When  it  tenderly  folded  my  own — 

Mute  whisper,  our  hearts  understand, 
Tho'  hushed  were  the  voice's  low  tone. 

And  here,  on  my  forehead  she  pressed 
Love's  benison;  here  on  my  hair, 

By  tremulous  fingers  caressed, 
Was  whispered  her  hope  and  her  prayer. 


44          MRS.  BROWNING'S  "AURORA  LEIGH: 

Ah,  more  than  the  poet  might  dream, 
Of  love  in  its  loveliness,  here 

Is  enshrined;  on  my  soul  it  will  beam, 
In  life  and  in  death,  ever  clear. 

Oh,  book  of  my  spirit  beloved, 
Of  my  fondest  remembrance  a  part ! 

Thy  grace  and  thy  sweetness  hath  moved 
The  innermost  deep  of  my  heart. 


T 


"OR A  PRO  ME." 

IHOU  who  art  angel  pure, 

Whose  earth-life  passed  in  innocence 
of  youth; 

Strange  that  I  can  endure 
The  thought  of  thy  soul-searching  glance  of  truth. 

I  know  how  blurred  the  leaves 
That  tell  the  story  of  my  record  here; 

I  know  how  few  the  sheaves 
My  hand  has  gathered — withering  fast,  and  sere. 

Yet,  like  an  open  book, 
I  feel  my  life  lie  open  to  thy  gaze, 

Whose  saintly  eyes  will  look 
In  love  and  sorrow,  and  in  sad  amaze. 

And  o'er  my  being  flows 
Healing  and  balm,  as  of  God's  pardoning  grace; 

And  my  bowed  spirit  knows 
Sweet  influence — as  from  one  who  sees  His  face, 

45 


46  "ORA  PRO  M£." 

Before  thy  perfect  peace, 
Before  thy  purity,  no  blot  can  stain, 

My  long  unrest  doth  cease, 
My  broken  hope  renews  its  strength  again. 

On  earth  alone  shall  Love 
Plead  for  her  loved  one,  in  the  battle's  stress  ? 

No;  round  His  throne  above 
Pure  souls  implore  divinest  aid  to  bless. 

Ah,  wherefore  count  the  years  ? 
It  seems  but  yesterday  thou  left'st  me  here  ! 

Still  flow  my  secret  tears, 
As  on  that  darkest  morning  of  the  year. 

The  folly,  or  the  wrong, 
That  marks  those  years,  I  can  not  now  undo; 

Yet,  all  the  way  along, 
I  feel  thy  love  has  followed,  strong  and  true. 

Still  intercede,  my  saint ! 
Still  snatch  me  back  from  evil  by  thy  prayer ! 

Though  faltering  oft,  and  faint, 
I  yet  with  thee  may  blest  deliverance  share. 


LILAC    LANE. 

THE  fragrant  boughs  of  blossom 
Were  arching  all  the  way; 
And  changeful  skies  of  April, 

With  light  and  shade  at  play, 
Smiled  clear  with  gleams  of  sunshine, 

Or  grieved  with  fitful  rain, — 
That  happy  day  in  springtime 
We  walked  in  Lilac  Lane. 

I  see  her  white  dress  flitting 

Beside  me,  even  now; 
One  rounded  arm  uplifted 

To  bend  the  swaying  bough; 
The  nodding  plumes,  in  answer, 

Sent  clown  a  perfumed  rain, 
To  hide  her  silken  tresses — 

That  day  in  Lilac  Lane. 

Oh,  leave  the  bough  to  frolic 
With  every  passing  breeze; 

The  spring  will  soon  be  over 
For  fragile  blooms  like  these, 

47 


48  LILAC  LANE. 

And  listen  to  my  story — 

If  gladness,  or  if  pain, 
Shall  be  its  end,  I  know  not  — 

This  day  in  Lilac  Lane. 

Sweet  eyes,  where  maiden  fancies 

Lie  mirrored  in  the  blue, 
They  will  not  raise  their  fringes — 

To  make  me  answer  true; 
The  little  hand  that  trembles 

Upon  my  arm,  is  fain 
To  cling  a  moment  closer — 

That  day  in  Lilac  Lane. 

No,  I'll  not  name  the  story 

I  whispered  in  her  ear, 
It  was  for  me,  to  tell  it; 

It  was  for  her,  to  hear. 
And  any  careless  listener 

The  secret  would  profane, 
Of  what  was  asked  and  answered— 

That  day  in  Lilac  Lane. 

Again  the  plumes  of  Lilac 

Are  sending  down  their  spray, 
As  underneath  their  fragrance 

We  take  our  happy  way; 
For  hand  in  hand  together— 

Thro'  sunshine  and  thro'  rain— 
We  pledged  our  troth  forever, 

That  day  in  Lilac  Lane. 


OUR  LITTLE  ROMAN. 

JAMES  MILNE  BARRY. 

I  SEE  him  in  his  scarlet  cloak, 
Our  darling,  beautiful  patrician  ! 
Sure  never  Roman  prouder  wore 
The  toga  of  his  young  ambition. 
And  never  Roman  looked  or  spoke 
With  more  imperial,  instant  sway, 
Than  when — one  dimpled  arm  outstretched- 
He  gave  the  mandate  firm:  "  Go  'way  !  " 

But  oh,  the  soft,  the  melting  tone, 

When  spent  the  storm  of  baby  ire, 
And  all  transfigured  in  their  tears, 

Those  flashing  orbs  forgot  their  fire  ! 
"  My  mamma  !  "  ne'er  the  culprit  fay 

Confession  more  bewitching  made  I 
Nor  absolution  quicklier  won 

For  every  precept  disobeyed  ! 

And  "G'an'ma!  make!  "  Who  could  resist 

That  irresistible  petition  ? 
That  comradeship  of  innocence 

To  which  all  else  must  yield  submission. 

49 


50  OUR  LITTLE  ROMAN. 

Aye,  "Ope  de  doo',"  and  let  him  in  ! 

"  G'an'ma"  will  not  her  pet  deny: 
Oh,  "  Roguey-poguey  !  "  What  a  game 

To  make  the  breathless  moments  fly  ! 

"  Goo'-night !  "  sweet  pet !    The  day  is  done- 

The  all  too  short  and  busy  day  ! 
And  all  that  bright  activity 

Must  Nature's  gracious  call  obey. 
Up  reach  fair  arms  and  rose-bud  mouth 

For  good-night  kiss  to  each  and  all ; 
And  "Mamma— wock  !  "  is  now,  at  last, 

His  sweet,  beseeching,  drowsy  call. 

Oh,  Baby  dear  !  we  may  not  watch 

Thy  infant  loveliness  again. 
Far,  far  on  boyhood's  road  thy  steps, 

Will  urge  their  way  to  paths  of  men. 
But  be  it  late,  or  be  it  soon — 

Whatever  day  our  tryst  befall — 
"Goo'  bye  !  "     My  Darling  !  in  the  care 

Of  God,  who  carethfor  us  all. 


MADRIGAL. 

"  Doris— tender,  sylvan,  sweet; 
Of  my  Love  the  name  complete." 
I  sat  with  Doris,  the  shepherd  maiden. — OLD  BALLAD. 

I  SAT  with  Doris,  when  skies  were  bending, 
With  Spring's  soft  splendor,  the  earth  above; 
When  woodland  birds  to  their  mates  were  calling, 
And  Nature  whispered  of  hope  and  love. 

I  sat  with  Doris,  when  fervent  Summer 
Kissed  the  leaves  of  the  red,  red  rose; 

When  the  wind  came  sweet    from    the  fragrant 

meadows, 
And  fair  and  long  was  the  evening's  close. 

I  sat  with  Doris,  when  golden  Autumn 
With  wealth  had  laden  the  orchard  boughs; 

When  wains  drew  heavy,  thro'  lane  and  highway, 
And  the  harvest  home  held  glad  carouse. 

I  sit  with  Doris,  while  winter  whitens, 
O'er  hill  and  meadow  and  frozen  stream; 

But  spring  and  summer,  and  golden  autumn, 
Are  all  fullfilled  in  our  happy  dream. 


WHERE  FIRST  WE  WANDERED. 

I  KNOW,  where  first  we  wandered,  that  the  flower 
Is  blushing,  blushing,  to  the  April  breeze; 
I  know,  the  bird  is  singing  where  high  tower 
The  stately  red-wood  trees. 

From  yonder  field,  the  sentinel  quail  is  calling 
A  watchful  summons  to  his  startled  mates; 

The   wood-man's  axe,  with  sharp  strokes  rising, 

falling, 
In  echo  alternates. 


Hark,  to  that  groan  !— as  Nature's  self  were  mourn 
ing  ! 

A  sudden  hush,  expectant,  holds  us  all: 
The  forest  monarch,  with  that  brief  forewarning, 

Rushes  unto  his  fall. 

Lo,  where  he  lies,  what  myriad  growths  are  shat 
tered— 
What    saplings    crushed    beneath    that    mighty 

doom! 

It  is  as  if  an  army— torn  and  scattered- 
Had  here  found  battle-room. 

52 


53 


WHERE  FIRST  WE  WANDERED. 

But'pigmy  man  has  lopped  away  his  branches — 
The  ringing  strokes  of  labor  cleave  the  air; 

Away,  away  !  where  yonder  sunlight  glances, 
To  scenes  more  brightly  fair. 

Down,  past  the  emerald  richness  of  the  meadow, 
Past  budding  vine,  and  promise-laden  tree; 

In  sunshine  now,  and  now  in  coolest  shadow, 
Our  pathway  windeth  free. 

The  blackberry  bushes  blossom  on  the  mountain, 
The  fern's  umbrageous  greenness  spreads  below 

Far  down,  we  hear,  like  gurgle  of  a  fountain, 
The  wild  brook's  restless  flow. 

Oh,  every  sight  and  sound  is  full  of  beauty  ! 

How  often,  Dear,  we  mused  together,  there; 
And  fancied  life's  whole  round  of  love  and  duty, 

Lay  in  that  boundary  fair. 

Dull  were  the  stranger  eye,  whom  no  revealing 
Of  Nature's  grace  and  meaning,  there  had  blessed 

But  unto  us,  what  sacred  depth  of  feeling, 
Had  each  fair  scene  expressed. 

Beneath  those  plumes  of  lilac,  purple  bending, 
One  summer  day,— do  you  remember,  Dear? — 

One  swift,  fond  gesture  to  my  heart  was  sending 
Delicious  hope  and  fear. 


54  WHERE  FIRST  WE  WANDERED. 

And  where  the  spring  in  leafy  covert  hidden, 
Still  sparkles  in  the  "  dell  without  a  name," 

Do  you  remember,  Dear,  how  all  unbidden, 
Sweet  Highland  Mary  came  ? 

Ah,  lost  to  daily  sight  and  daily  pleasure, 
Tho'  far  remote  our  errant  footsteps  rove, 

Within  our  souls  it  dwells — a  deathless  treasure- 
That  scene  of  hope  and  love. 

Within  our  souls,  when  earthly  vision  waneth, 
Shall  we  not  hold  it  dear  and  precious  still  ? 

Remembered,  where  no  parting  pang  remaineth 
Sweet  memory's  joy  to  chill. 


TO  MY  BELOVED. 

[At  Rest  May  nth,  1894.] 

I  WOULD  not  call  thee  back 
To  this  sad  world  of  strife  and  sin  and  tears. 
Oh,  no  !  my  own:  pursue  thy  spirit's  track, 
Thro'  the  immortal  years. 

Ah,  not  for  thee  the  pain, 

The  hot  tear  dropping,  and  the  anguished  thought. 
Thro'  long,  long  days  and  nights  thou  didst  attain 

The  peace  by  suffering  wrought. 

And  as  a  tired  child 

Leans  on  his  mother's  bosom  trustful  head, 
So  gently  was  thy  weariness  beguiled, 

What  time  thy  spirit  fled. 

Oh,  wonderful  relief— 
From  fetters  of  the  clay  released  at  last ! 

O  dignity  of  death  ! — rebuking  grief- 
Earth's  fitful  fever  past! 

55 


5 6  TO  MY  BELOVED. 

The  ruthless  rush  of  life 

No  more  disturbs  that  infinite  repose; 
Greed's  sordid  deed,  nor  misery's  maddened  strife, 

Nor  helpless  sorrow's  woes. 

Ah,  tender  heart  and  true  ! 

That  beat  in  sympathy  for  every  wrong. 
Now,  rest  thee,  Love:  in  heavenly  calm  renew 

Thy  being  tried  so  long. 

I  would  not  call  thee  back: 

(Tho'  thy  fond  hand  would  softly  wipe  these  tears.) 
Oh,  no  !  my  own:  pursue  thy  spirit's  track, 

Thro'  the  immortal  years. 


MY  BIRTHDAY. 

AH,  day  of  sunshine  !  hast  thou  come, 
With  bird's  sweet  singing,  as  of  yore  ? 
With  all  thy  gifts  of  love  and  home, 

And  memories  dear — a  priceless  store  ! 
I  pause  to  mark  you,  as  you  pass, — 

I,  who  may  never  more  behold 
The  soft,  rich  verdure  of  your  grass, 
Or  your  bright  sunshine  streaming  gold 

I  see  the  garden's  old  domain; 

The  orchard  blooms  are  pink  and  fair; 
I  roam  familar  paths  again, 

And  breathe  the  pure  and  scented  air. 
Sweet  rippling  laughter  meets  my  ear — 

T'was  here  we  formed  our  fairy  ring; 
And  underneath  the  walnut  here, 

In  summer  days,  we  used  to  swing. 

And  here,  where  bluest  violets  grow, 
On  festal  eves  we  feasting  made; 

Our  snowy  cloth  was  spread  below 
The  apple-tree's  protecting  shade. 

57 


58  MY  BIR  THDA  Y. 

Upon  the  sward,  so  richly  green, 
We  clustered  round  in  order  gay; 

And  royal  homage  gave  our  queen, 
In  honor  of  her  natal  day. 


Ah,  well!  my  eyes  are  not  so  bright, 

Nor  heart  so  buoyant,  as  of  old; 
And  summer,  with  its  warmth  and  light, 

Has  lost  the  charm  it  used  to  hold. 
Yet  still,  when  June's  red  roses  bloom, 

I  lose  the  sense  of  doubt  and  care; 
And,  wafted  by  that  sweet  perfume, 

I  breathe  my  childhood's  purer  air. 

How  fond  and  tender  were  the  eyes 

That  beamed  upon  my  birthday  then! 
What  loving  gifts — what  sweet  surprise!- 

Yes,  give  me  back  the  book  again. 
It  was  her  hand  that  traced  this  line 

Upon  its  page,  that  morning  fair — 
The  day  my  years  were  counted  nine; 

And,  proud,  I  read  the  record  there. 

O  hands,  that  clasp  my  own  no  more! 

O  gentle  voices,  silent  now! 
A  stranger  treads  the  paths  of  yore, 

And  gathers  roses  from  the  bough. 


MY  BIRTHDAY.  59 

Youth's  rosy  hopes  and  dreams  have  fled, 
But  dearer  doth  remembrance  grow; 

And  round  my  lonely  day  is  shed 
The  pensive  grace  of  long  ago. 

LORD!  keep  like  theirs,  my  memory  green, 

In  kindly  hearts  that  linger  here; 
Sweet  charity  my  failings  screen, 

And  mercy  drop  the  healing  tear. 
And  still,  while  seasons  wax  and  wane, 

And  summer  skies  are  softly  blue, 
May  dear  lips  breathe  the  fond  refrain: 

"We  keep  this  day,  beloved,  for  you." 


COMFORT. 

NOT  where  your  darling,   in    her   youth    and 
beauty, 

Sleeps — hidden  from  your  yearning,  tearful  eyes; 
Not  where  she  bade  farewell  to  life's  long  duty, 
To  life's  long  agonies; 

Not  where  lies  buried  all  your  hope  and  gladness, 
The  dear,  sweet  past,  from  which  you  turned  so 
loth; 

The  radiant  promise  of  the  future:  sadness 
Hath  now  enshrouded  both. 

Not  where  the  blue  sky  arches  free  above  her, 
Not  where  the  sunbeam  seeks  her  place  of  rest; 

Not  there,  not  there,  will  the  fond  hearts  that  love 

her, 
Find  balm  for  wounded  breast! 

Oh,  wing  thy  thought  to  other  place  of  sleeping, 
To  other  place  of  sepulcher  than  this! 

What  can  this  tell  thee  of,  but  sighs  and  weeping, 
And  wreck  of  earthly  bliss  ? 

60 


COMFORT.  6 1 

Once,  very  early,  while  the  night  yet  tarried, 
And  spread  its  shadows  o'er  the  silent  plain, 

Two  lonely  women  myrrh  and  perfumes  carried 
To  where  their  Lord  was  lain. 

Oft  had  they  seen  Him  bringing  hope  and  gladness, 
Even  to  the  dreary  portals  of  the  grave; 

Only  upon  himself  fell  doom  and  sadness — 
Himself  he  could  not  save. 

And  so  their  hearts  were  heavy,  cold  with  grieving, 
As  on  they  went,  Love's  errand  to  fulfill; 

The  promise  he  had  left  them  unbelieving, 
If  'twas  remembered  still. 

But  who,  they  said,  will  grant  to  us  admission  ? 

Whose  hand  so  strong  to  roll  the  stone  away  ? 
When,  lo!  the  tomb — all  open  to  their  vision, 

And  radiant  as  the  day! 

Vain,  vain,  the  seal  upon  that  rocky  portal! 

O  soldiers!  all  your  watching  is  in  vain! 
How  should  the  dying  prison  the  immortal  ? 

Or  death  the  life  detain  ? 

No  longer  now  the  Master's  gloomy  prison, 
"Why  seek  ye  here  ?  "  angelic  voices  cry; 

He  is  not  here!  for  he  is  risen — risen! 
Behold,  He  draweth  nigh. 


62  COMFORT. 

"All  hail!  "  O  voice  divine!  O  Master  tender! 

Speak  to  us  also,  as  to  her  of  old; 
For  we  forget  Thy  promise,  and  surrender 

The  gracious  hope  We  hold. 

Still  let  us  find  Thee  standing  near  the  portal, 
Where  Love  her  latest,  costliest  debt  doth  pay; 

Illumine  all  its  dark  with  light  immortal, 
And  roll  the  stone  away. 


IN  REMEMBRANCE. 
ISAAC  ERRETT. 

FOUNDER    OF   THE    "CHRISTIAN    STANDARD." 
DIED    IN    CINCINNATI,    DEC.    l8,    lS88. 

All  the  winters  which  have  snowed 

Can  not  snow  out  the  scent  from  stones  and  air, 

Of  a  sincere  man's  virtues.  — MRS.  BROWNING. 

THE  years  shall  pass  on,  with  their  sorrow  and 
sinning, 

With  struggle  and  failure,  and  recompense  meet; 
But  naught  shall  imperil  the  crown  of  his  winning, 

Who  sat  like  a  child  at  the  Nazarene's  feet. 
Oh,  softly  we  name  him,  with  heart-broken  voic- 

ings, 

And  lonely  the  pathway  bereft  of  him  here; 
But  full  is  the  anthem  of  heaven's  rejoicings, 
That  echo  in  vain  on  our  earth -fettered  ear. 

Pale  Grief  had  walked  with  him,  and  shown  his 

meek  spirit 
The  darkest  abodes  of  her  somber  domain; 

63 


64  -fly  REMEMBRANCE. 

But  pure  was  the  faith  which  doth  all  things  inherit, 
And  broken  and  vanquished  the  shaft  of  her  pain! 

Oh,  loyal  and  tender,  his  strong  heart  was  beating, 
To  comfort  the  struggling  who  faint  by  the  way; 

And  dumbly  our  souls,  to  our  souls,  are  repeating 
The  message  of  heaven  he  brought  us,  to-day. 


Up!  linger  no  more  in  the  valley  of  shadow; 

(Methinks  that  I  hear  him  entreating  anew.) 
There  is  work  to  be  done  in  the  world's  harvest 
meadow; 

Delay  not! — it  urges — it  calls  upon  you. 
There  is  wrong  to  be  righted,   and  truth  to  be 
spoken, 

And  love's  gentle  ministry  yet  to  fulfill; 
Oh,  let  not  the  box  of  anointing,  unbroken 

Remain  for  the  service  of  brotherhood  still! 


The  years  shall  sweep  on  to  eternity's  ocean; 

The  ages  unceasing,  their  purpose  fulfill; 
But  the  life-giving  force  of  his  spirit's  devotion, 

Shall  blend  with  the  currents  of  destiny  still. 
Tho'  his  shrine  were  unbuilt,  and  his  name  were 
unspoken, 

Should  honor  and  truth  in  the  dust  be  defaced  ? 
Or,  think  you  such  proof  of  remembrance  the  token 

By  which  the  high  path  of  his  being  were  traced  ? 


IN  REMEMBRANCE.  65 

He  is  one  with  the  hope,  he  is  one  with  the  sorrow, 

That  beats  in  humanity's  bosom  for  aye; 
He  is  one  with  love's  work  of  to-day  and  to 
morrow, 

He  is  one  with  the  faith  that  can  never  decay. 
Why  stand  we  here  gazing  ?    The  clouds  that  were 

rifting, 
Will  give  him  no  more  to  our  tear-darkened 

view: 
There  are  souls  for  the  saving,  and  burdens  for 

lifting; 
Up!  faltering  never,  the  journey  pursue. 


SWEET  SPRING. 

I  PINE  to  hear  the  brooklet's  flow, 
I  pine  to  hear  the  robin's  song, 
To  see  the  peach-bloom's  fiery  glow — 
Sweet  Spring,  thou  tarriest  long! 

Oh,  waft,  soft  wind,  the  clouds  away. 

And  fan  my  cheek  with  light  caress! 
I  weary  of  this  darksome  day — 

It  doth  my  heart  oppress. 

And  arch  above  me,  radiant  sky! 

Fair  snowdrop!  bloom  beneath  my  feet. 
Let  every  breeze  that  wanders  by 

Bear  fragrance,  pure  and  sweet. 

Yet,  did  thy  advent  now  befall, 
How  vain  the  idle  wish  would  seem! 

I  know  that  nothing  can  recall 
The  springtime  of  my  dream. 

Ah,  April!  could'st  thou  bring  to  me, 

With  all  thy  opening  buds  and  flowers, 
The  joy — the  bliss — the  careless  glee 


Of  childhood's  early  hours, 
66 


SWEET  SPRING.  67 

Then  vvert  thou  doubly  welcome  here, 

Like  sunshine  on  a  wintry  day; 
For  Hope  would  smile  thro'  every  tear, 

And  scatter  mists  away. 

Yet,  come  once  more!     I  yearn  to  hear 
The  first  faint  echo  of  thy  tread; 

And  many  a  memory,  old  and  dear, 
Awaits  to  crown  thy  head. 

O  voice,  whose  music  thrills  me  yet, 
You  mingle  with  the  robin's  strain! 

Dear  eyes!  each  wild- wood  violet 
Restores  your  glance  again. 

And  all  thy  fairest  gifts  unite 
To  speak  of  her — in  bloom  and  song! 

Oh,  stir  my  heart  with  past  delight, 
Sweet  Spring!  thou  tarriest  long! 


A  WOODLAND  MEMORY. 

OH,  balmy  and  clear  was  the  air, 
And  the  black-birds  were  twittering  shrill, 
As  we  walked  thro'  the  stubble-field  bare, 
(No  grace  of  the  autumn  was  there), 
To  the  woodland  enchanted  and  still. 

I  remember  the  silence  that  fell 
On  laughter  and  jest,  as  we  stayed 

Our  steps  in  its  shadow;  the  spell 

Of  the  sprites  that  in  solitude  dwell, 
Of  the  boldest  a  captive  had  made. 

Far,  far  did  the  aisles  stretch  away, 

O'er-arched  by  a  canopy  rare; 
Gold  and  green,  and  of  crimson  and  gray, 
And  colors  more  somber  than  they, 

The  warp  and  the  woof  of  it  were. 

Oh,  lovely,  on  boughs  of  the  oak, 

The  light  as  it  shifted  and  fell! 
How  trembling  the  rays  as  they  broke 
On  fern  and  on  mosses,  and  woke 

Every  coy-hidden  charm  of  the  dell! 

68 


A  WOODLAND  MEMORY.  69 

But  what  fairy-like  splendors  were  these  ? 

For,  fluttering,  fluttering  down, 
Fell,  stirred  by  the  soft  autumn  breeze, 
What  wonderful  wafts  from  the  trees, 

On  the  sward  that  was  faded  and  brown! 

From  the  maple,  its  gold  and  its  red; 

From  the  beech  tree,  its  emerald  sheen; 
From  the  poplar  that  sighed  overhead— 
From  each  and  from  all — there  was  shed 

Some  loveliness  meet  for  the  scene. 

Bright  leaves!  how  they  quivered  and  danced — 

A  part  of  the  ambient  air! 
In  the  sunlight,  a  glory  they  glanced; 
In  the  shadow,  they  floated  entranced; 

Above,  and  beneath — everywhere! 

And  I  pondered:    When  Life's  little  year 

Is  rounded  and  ended  at  last, 
May  Love,  like  the  autumn  boughs  here, 
Hide  all  that  is  barren  or  sere 

In  the  silent  domains  of  the  Past. 

Some  things  we  may  never  forget — 

Life's  burden  of  toil  and  of  care 
Slips  from  us;  the  fear  and  the  fret, 
The  fever  of  hope  and  regret, 

Are  lost  in  a  healthier  air. 


70  A   WOODLAND  MEMORY, 

But  I  think,  when  in  beauty  and  bliss 
The  new  earth  shall  perfected  roll, 
The  remembrance  of  scenes  such  as  this 
Will  live  where  their  counterpart  is— 
A  memory  dear  to  the  soul. 


"  BUT  THEN." 

T  WONDER  did  you  ever  hear 
1     That  sweetest  little  story, 
Of  darling  little  Sunshine  bright, 
Our  lovely  morning-glory. 

Our  April  blossom,  blooming  fair 

In  face  of  wind  and  shower; 
And  welcoming,  with  glad  delight, 

Each  golden  sunlit  hour. 

But  out  of  every  gentle  phrase 

That  Love  devised  for  naming, 
The  quaintest,  sure,  she  found  herself, 

That  one  could  think  of  claiming. 

"  How  dark  the  sky!  how  dull  the  clay! 

The  rain  how  ceaseless  falling!  " 
"  But  then,'1'  our  darling  made  reply, 

"  How  all  the  birds  are  calling!  " 

"Alas,  this  frost  has  killed,  I  fear, 

The  tender  fruit  buds  swelling," 
"  But  then,  oh,  come!"  her  sweet  voice  cried, 

"  I've  found  the  snowdrop's  dwelling." 


72  "&UT  THEN." 

"  How  poor  and  mean  this  narrow  room, 
How  pent  for  stormy  weather," 

"  But  then,  oh,  auntie  dear,  you  know, 
It  keeps  us  all  together." 

"  Poor  child!    Your  frock  so  sadly  worn, 
You  could  not  go  a-Maying; 

I  grieve  to  see  you  still  at  home, 
When  all  your  mates  are  playing." 

"  But  then,  mamma," — a  sudden  smile 
Dispelled  the  passing  shadow — 

"  We'll  have  our  Maying,  Rob  and  I, 
Down  yonder  in  the  meadow." 

And  so  that  little  phrase  became 
A  household  word  and  treasure; 

A  sweet  rebuke  to  useless  care — 
A  sweet  recall  to  pleasure. 

Ah,  time  may  try,  and  rudely  thwart, 
Her  spirit's  brave  endeavor; 

But  then,  we  know  our  darling  true 
Will  keep  her  trust  forever. 


''SEEING,  UNSEEN.' 

The  following  lines  were  suggested  by  reading  Christina 
Rosetti's  poem  bearing  the  above  title — a  poem  whose  terrible 
pathos  must  penetrate  every  heart. 

T^HE  firelight  glanced  upon  the  walls, 
1       Faded  and  rose  in  fitful  gleams  ; 
It  was  that  mystic  hour  that  calls, 
From  past  and  future,  spirit  dreams. 

He  watched  her  muse  beside  the  hearth, 

He  noted  each  familiar  thing  ; 
An  atmosphere  of  love,  of  mirth, 

Of  sorrow,  round  her  seemed  to  cling. 

But  he  from  earth  had  passed  away  ; 

Unseen,  unfelt,  he  lingered  near. 
And  did  she,  from  that  long-past  day, 

He  marveled,  hold  his  memory  dear? 

For  he  remembered,  when,  with  her, 
He  sought  the  Muse's  crystal  spring  ; 

And  felt  the  poet's  rapture  stir 
His  soul,  and  thro'  his  pulses  ring. 

73 


74  "SEEING,  UNSEEN." 

What  hand  had  smote  the  water  fair  ? 

Alas  !  (unlike  the  marvel  old.) 
The  lips  that  touched  it  unaware, 

Shrank,  shuddering,  from  the  stagnant  cold. 

We  pass  with  yesterday  away  ; 

We  come  not,  with  the  dawning,  back. 
We  pass,  and  are  not,  (sang  the  lay), 

And  those  who  mourned  us  know  no  lack. 

Dark  silence  for  a  moment  fell 

Between  them,  born  of  doubt  and  dread  ; 
They  dare  not,  each  to  other,  tell 

The  horror  chill,  that  smote  and  fled. 

And  then  she  raised  the  sweetest  eyes 
That  ever  shone  in  woman's  face  : 

O  Love  !  believe  it  not,  she  cries, 
Time  can  not  work  such  treason  base! 

Ah,  easy  was  it  to  respond, 

And  lightly  chase  the  gloom  away, 

When  lip  to  lip  with  answer  fond, 
Might  sweetly  seal  their  faith  for  aye. 

But  years  of  absence  cold  and  dumb, 
Do  faith  and  hope  indeed  endure? 

And  if  to  thee,  Beloved,  I  come, 
Oh,  shall  I  find  my  trust  secure  ? 


"SEEING,  UNSEEN."  75 

The  lights  and  shadows  round  her  played, 

And  wove  their  idle  tracery  there  ; 
And  soft  and  low,  as  one  who  prayed, 

Her  whispered  reverie  stirred  the  air : 

0  Love,    the  years  are  long,  she  said, 
But  all  are  bearing  me  to  thee. 

1  know  not  thro'  what  shadow  dread, 

Or  what  soft  light,  the  end  shall  be. 

His  gifts  without  repentance  are  ; 

And  thou  art  mine  for  evermore. 
Nor  lost,  nor  faded— oh,  my  star ! 

Thou  shinest  on  a  deathless  shore. 

Oh,  years  that  come  !     Oh,  years  that  pass  ! 

I  would  not  watch  them  idly  glide. 
Nay,  may  they  mirror,  as  a  glass, 

Some  duty  done,  some  help  supplied. 

My  dearest !  never  hands  of  mine 

May  minister  to  thee,  below  ; 
But  may  they  still,  in  thought  of  thine, 

On  others,  service  sweet  bestow. 

So,  every  day  thy  presence  keep 
Beside  me,  in  each  thronging  care  ; 

And  every  night,  thro'  peaceful  sleep, 
Some  vision  of  thee  bless  me  there. 


76  "SEEING, 

False,  false  the  voice  !  tho'  silver  clear 
Its  rythmic  music  flow  and  swell,— 

That  tells  us  Love  may  only  here, 
On  this  sad  earth,  find  room  to  dwell. 

Again  she  raised  the  sweetest  eyes 
That  ever  shone  in  woman's  face  : 

Oh   no  !  believe  it  not,  she  cries  ; 
Love  hath  not  limit,  time  nor  space. 

Then  sudden,  o'er  her  spirit  swept 
An  answering  hope,  and  faith  and  prayer. 

A  solemn,  tender  silence  kept, 
A  moment,  all  the  listening  air  ; — 

And  he  was  gone.     She  knew  not  whence 
That  sweet,  mysterious  blessing  fell ; 

But  in  her  heart  abode  a  sense 
Of  peace  and  joy  ineffable. 


BUT  A  DREAM. 

"  It  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  yielded  a  dear  delight." 

COME,  back  to  me,  beloved  ! 
Come,  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  night, 
When  daylight's  ceaseless  cares    that   round   me 

roved, 
Betake  themselves  to  flight. 

Come,  when  the  heart  so  tried, 

Weary  of  sorrow,  yields  itself  to  rest; 

Oh,  come— and  in  thy  beauty  glorified, 
Make  the  sad  slumber  blest. 

Ah,  once  when  slumber  weighed 

My  heavy  eyelids  down,  such  bliss  was  mine  ! 
Day's  long  unrest  was  ended — sheltering  shade 

Brought  joy  and  hope  divine. 

Methought  that  I  was  sad, 

And  weak  and  weary;  o'er  an  arid  plain 
With  faltering  step  I  toiled,  yet  purpose  had 

A  distant  goal  to  gain. 

77 


78  BUT  A  DREAM. 

Dark  grew  the  threat'ning  sky; 

Hoarse  thunder  muttered;  on  my  lonely  path 
The  tempest  lowered,  nigher  and  more  nigh, 

And  whelmed  me  in  its  wrath. 

Faith  failed,  and  courage  died; 

When,  in  the  pauses  of  the  storm,  I  heard 
A  voice  of  music— unto  me  it  cried, 

And  all  my  being  stirred  ! 

So  rare  the  utterance  rang, 

No  human  language  could  the  sound  repeat; 
I  heard,  but  could  not  fathom,  what  it  sang 

In  rapture  passing  sweet. 

While,  far  remote,  I  saw 

A  form  of  angel  beauty — angel  grace  ! 
With  joy  unspeakable,  with  reverent  awe, 

I  gazed  upon  that  face. 

Oh,  with  what  peace  it  shone  ! 

What  pure,  unuttered,  perfect  bliss  was  there  ! 
My  mortal  vision  dared  not  linger  on 

A  loveliness  so  fair. 

But  ah,  I  knew  it  well  !— 

Earth  stained,  and  weary,  and  despairing — yet 
Thy  angel  pity  yearned  with  me  to  dwell, 

Thy  love  could  not  forget. 


BUT  A  DREAM.  79 

Once,  once  again,  the  strain 

Of  heavenly  rapture  swelled  upon  the  air  ! 
It  shook  my  heart  with  mingled  joy  and  pain — 

It  thrills  forever  there. 

And  all  the  distant  height 

Glowed  in  celestial  radiance,  crystal  clear: 
Had'st  thou  not  passed  beyond   the  realm  of  night, 

To  morning's  fairer  sphere  ! 

O  vision  glad  and  brief! 

Would  I  might  hold  thee  as  a  prophecy, 
When  earthly  toil  is  ended — earthly  grief, 

And  weariness,  gone  by. 

O  sweet  and  wonderous  strain  ! 

Wilt  thou  not  echo  in  a  clearer  air? 
When — all  thy  marvelous  music  rendered  plain — 

I,  too,  the  song  may  share. 


10 

Is 

~ 


m 


to 


on 

n 


Q  r 


GJ 


if  a  016/3 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


a 


